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Fortunately, my nearly 6-year-old twins’ birthday party had concluded by the time my son started vomiting. And luckily, when Griffin began spewing up a crimson tide, I recalled a relevant anecdote from my older sister’s past—the time one of her college roommates was retching what they thought was blood, unaware that the girl had spent the better part of her evening imbibing laced, red punch. Even…